


The Man in Aisle Ten

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Christmas Shopping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, the busiest day for shopping at Harrod's, and there's a guy in aisle ten who's snapping at every sales associate who dares to approach him. It's up to Moira to help him find the perfect present.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 155
Kudos: 401
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul, To remember and cherish





	The Man in Aisle Ten

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Мужчина в десятом отделе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429329) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> For the Johnlock 2020 Advent Collection - the prompt was "The 'Perfect' Present".

“Eyes on aisle ten, please.”

Moira glanced at the security cameras as they focused on aisle ten (Scarves, Hats, and Gloves), and at the man standing in the middle of the aisle, his hands flicking around his head. The wide angle of the lens allowed her to see people trying to walk down the aisle, see the man’s gestures, and walk hastily away.

At the same time, Bernie came slamming into the staff room. 

“What’s up, Bernie?” Judy said.

“That man - oh, I hate this time of year. I only asked him if he was looking for a scarf for his girlfriend, and he said ‘Boyfriend’, and I said, ‘Oh, sorry, there’s some nice men’s scarves here’ and then he started to say the most awful things.”

“Awful things - like what?” Working in retail meant that everyone traded evil customer stories, but Bernie only shook her head and repeated, a bit tearfully, “Awful things.”

Asif said, “Take a half hour break, Bernie,” then picked up the walkie-talkie to call security, but Moira raised her hand. 

“Let me have a go, Asif,” she said. 

“You sure?” 

Moira looked at the screen again, looked at the agitated movements of the man. He reminded her a bit of her brother. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Keep eyes but don’t follow me please. He looks like he needs space.”

She made her way quickly and efficiently through the crowds in the store. After so many years working at Harrod’s, she was still taken aback every year by the number of people who seemed to be surprised at the inevitability of December 25, and who decided to do all their shopping the day before. It was Bernie’s first year, and she wasn’t yet accustomed to the kind of stress that shoppers like that put themselves under, then flipped out with the least provocation. 

Moira was used to it; had a gift, Asif said. 

She arrived in aisle ten, still relatively clear of people who were avoiding the man. The man himself was now muttering under his breath, staring at nothing, his hands flicking. She noted the designer coat, the hands with impeccable nails, the expensive smell of his shampoo. She glanced at the security camera she knew was in the corner, and nodded. Then she stepped up next to him. 

“Tell me about him?” she said. 

The man froze, and Moira wondered if he hadn’t heard her approaching. He looked her up and down, and it wasn’t lewd, as Moira had often encountered in her career - it was more like he was reading the serial number in her bones. After a moment, he turned back to the wall of men’s scarves in front of him and spoke rapidly.

“Aged forty-nine. 169 centimeters tall. Hair is sandy blond with some grey; eyes deep blue. Doctor. Formerly a soldier, honourably discharged after being wounded in Afghanistan. My flatmate and colleague since 2010. Widower, one daughter aged 26 months and twelve days. Saved my life multiple times, more times than he himself knows. And three hundred and fifty eight days, nine hours and eighteen minutes ago, just after midnight on New Year’s Eve, he kissed me. He has brought me happiness that I thought was not an option for me. I have been irrevocably changed by him, and I cannot simply _get him a scarf._ ”

The tidal wave of the man’s dilemma broke over Moira’s head, more than it had done with any other customer - or any other person - in her life. She gave both of them a moment to breathe it in. 

“It’s hardest for the ones that are the most close to us,” she said. 

He turned to her, his mouth slightly open with astonishment. “Yes,” he breathed, as though it was a revelation for him. 

“Right,” Moira said. She mentally considered the layout of the store, prioritizing the best options, eliminating the rest. “I’m just going to show you some things, you tell me your immediate reaction. All right?”

She didn’t give him the chance to respond, but turned and left. From the corner of her eye she saw him follow, then he matched her swift pace at her side. 

“Jumper,” she said. “A really nice one; cashmere.”

“No. He has more jumpers than I can count. I have been told in no uncertain terms to leave his jumpers alone.”

“Okay.” 

They motored through men’s accessories, leaving shoppers behind in their wake. “I would advise against pants as a gift, unless they’re racy, but we don’t carry that kind of stuff anyway. Socks, absolutely not, unless as an add-on. Same with any appliance, unless - who does most of the cooking?”

“Him.”

“Not a good idea then, unless he’s made a specific request. Has he? No? Then no. Can be perceived as unromantic, that you only see him as the household cook.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” 

Moira kept going, and somehow the magic of Harrods was with her, people parting in front of them, no one trying to pull her away from him.

“Okay. Stereo system?” 

“Got one.”

“Piece of art? Sculpture, painting?”

“No.”

“Book?”

“He reads terrible pulpy novels. I refuse.”

“Fair enough. Towels?”

“No.”

“Nice bedding? Something in satin, perhaps?”

“God no.”

She, even she, Moira, the queen of sales at Harrods, was running out of ideas. They rounded the corner into the jewelry department. “A nice watch? We might even be able to engrave it tonight.”

“He has a watch, very proud of it, won it at a card game during the war. He thinks it’s a knock off. It isn’t.”

“Tie clip?”

“No.”

“Cufflinks?”

“No.”

“Ring?”

The moment the word fell from her mouth he froze. She knew in her heart it was right, it was perfect, he didn’t have to say a word. She stopped and turned to him for the first time since they had started through the store; he was simply standing there, blinking. After a moment he took a breath, as though waking up or emerging from water. 

“He… he was married before.” He sounded stunned, as though he had suddenly had a massive paradigm shift in his life, and his boyfriend hadn’t even said ‘yes’ yet.

“Then we’ll look for one that looks quite different. What was his other ring like?”

“Gold, fourteen caret. Five millimeters.”

“Then let’s look at platinum,” she said gently, as she steered him over to the counter.

In less than five minutes he had pointed at a platinum ring, seven millimeters, beveled edge; identified the size of ring required; declined an engraving; paid. There was one in stock, for a mercy. For a moment, he simply stood and stared at the small green box in his hand, until a tiny smile crossed his face. As he tucked the ring away in his breast pocket, she saw a glimmer of the happiness that this man had in his life, that he hadn’t had before.

“Thank you,” he said softly to her. Then he straightened his back, all business again. “You work on commission, do you not?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s a pleasure to-”

“Would you kindly prepare the following for me, wrapped and labelled: one Burberry scarf, labelled G. Lestrade; one Burberry umbrella, for Mycroft Holmes, a Cartier watch Tank model, for Molly Hooper; a Smeg stand mixer, in purple, for M. Hudson; an Orion Observer 80mm telescope, for Rosamund Watson. How long to put that together?”

He rattled off the list to Moira’s growing astonishment; she realized he was naming all the brands of items they had passed on their route through the store. “About half an hour, sir.”

“Excellent. And a Hermès scarf for yourself.”

“That’s - that’s not necessary, sir…”

“I insist. Also your colleague is skimming off the top of the sales, in cahoots with the cashier at desk twelve. I’ll meet you at customer service.”

And he was gone, with a flick of his (rather nice) coat.

Moira stood for a moment, shocked by the experience as a whole and by the realization that she was about to get about two months worth of wages in commission, with a single sale. She took a deep breath and lifted her walkie-talkie.

“Asif,” she said, and she started to laugh as she spoke, “I’m going to require support to put together a large sale. Not Bernie. And then we need to have a meeting with security on Desk Twelve.”


End file.
